The Vessel
by starboarder
Summary: Set two months after "Dark City" ends. Murdoch and Schreber make a shocking discovery. This story is an attempt at explaining the comment Mr. Hand makes to Murdoch in the film - we use your dead as vessels. Please review!
1. Default Chapter

Author's note and disclaimer: I wrote this in an attempt to remedy the atrocious lack of Dark City fics on the web. I saw the movie about a month ago and haven't been able to get it out of my head. It is simply mind-blowing! Please note that all characters are the property of the screenwriters and New Line Cinema. I do not own them, sadly! I make no profit by this piece of fan fiction. Please R&R and spread the Dark City goodness!

It was dark. John Murdoch walked the streets of the city, smiling from time to time in a self-satisfied manner like an artist who admires a particularly fine painting he has completed. Sometimes when he squinted really hard, the city almost looked like it had the first time he saw it. Or rather, the first time he remembered seeing it - dark, damp and ominous, full of long shadows and unknown menaces lurking around every corner. In the daylight it was a different place, and John found it easy to forget the way it had once been. But after sunset it could still bear a resemblance to the old city, especially on

nights like this one when the earlier downpour left puddles on the street that gleamed with eerie brightness in the lamplight. Pausing beside one, John peered down into the black water and saw his reflection peering back at him. "John Murdoch." He gave his name to no one in particular, liking the way it sounded out loud. He could have changed it of course - no one but Schreber would have known the difference - but he hadn't. It was the only name he knew. Catching the stern, humorless turn to his mouth, he looked up from the puddle, then suddenly threw his head back and laughed, a sharp, gun-barrel sound that put a few roosting pigeons to flight. He remembered that first awful night when he'd wandered the streets and tried to figure out his own name in front of a shop window. He could smile about it now but sometimes, in his dreams, the panic still returned to him. He doubted he'd be rid of it anytime soon.

He glanced at his watch. Ironically the hands pointed at one minute to

midnight. He permitted himself a smirk, then began to count down the seconds without really knowing why. Ten, nine, eight... This was ridiculous, he knew nothing was going to happen. Still, he continued. Four, three, two, one... He glanced at the bridge above him where a few cars were making their way across. They showed no sign of slowing. He watched until their headlights disappeared from view, then shook himself, as though waking from a dream. What was he expecting anyway? There was little traffic, and he didn't bother to look crossing the street. It was late, most of the city's occupants were no doubt home. Which was where he should be heading. Emma would be worried. No, not Emma. Anna. Even after two months he still couldn't get used to calling her that. At first it had been easy to excuse himself, telling her that she reminded him very much of someone he used to know called Emma. That was then. He should know better now. Sighing to himself, he turned onto Avenue C. He and Anna lived above the theater where she worked - the theater that had once been "Neptune's Kingdom" and home to Karl Harris. He mourned the loss of Karl, who was the closest thing to family that he had. No matter that their history together had been fabricated, that his childhood with Uncle Karl had been nothing more than the product of someone else's whim. Despite all the havoc in his mind that the Strangers had left as their legacy, John did wish that he could have kept the illusion of growing up on Shell Beach and later with Uncle Karl in the city. He clung to the illusion with all the desperation of a man who clings to lies because he has nothing else - the truth is a void to him. He had sought out Uncle Karl shortly after the Strangers left, and had found him with little trouble. He was now Earnest Mayes, better known as Ernie, and had recently retired after a successful life as a drug store owner. Whether by mere chance, or as a last laugh on the part of the Strangers, he now lived in a small house on Shell Beach, right by the water. John and Anna were saving up to buy a house nearby, confident that working overtime would eventually see their dream a reality. John hid his true desire to live there under the guise of the fact that they'd met at Shell Beach, and spent their honeymoon there. The fact was that John hoped that by moving there he might be able to recreate the life he could have lived in his memories. The life he would have lived if the imprinting had been successful. He wanted his and Anna's children to grow up in the place where, in a parallel past, Johnny Murdoch had lived with his Uncle Karl and written "Guide to Shell Beach." John sighed again as he climbed the stairs up to his apartment. Ernie was a nice fellow, with quite a bit of the old Karl in him, but that didn't take away the fact that he was just a friendly old man with absolutely no connection to John. After painstakingly choreographing a meeting with him in such a manner as to appear accidental, John found himself struggling to strike up a real friendship with Ernie. He was doing his best to be patient and practical about it. After all, how easy could it be to become instantly intimate with someone who doesn't know you? He hoped that by moving to Shell Beach the acquaintance would become more natural, given the excuse of neighborliness and shared interests. Maybe then he could create with Anna and Ernie's help, the family he so longed for. Maybe then he would cease to be haunted by the unanswered - unanswerable - questions about his true past, somewhere else. "None of us remember that," he muttered to himself, envisioning Schreber's pale face looming in front of him as he slid his key in the lock. He hadn't heard from Schreber in over two weeks, which was unusual because in the days after the Strangers left, they'd talked almost daily. It was inevitable that they should do so, being the only two people who remembered the way the city used to be. In spite of John's initial wariness about Schreber, who had been both a traitor and an ally, the two had forged a firm friendship. An unusual one perhaps, but a friendship nevertheless. Schreber had gone from "Doctor" to "Schreber" to finally just "Daniel." After the Strangers left and John took on the gargantuan responsibility of rebuilding the city, Daniel had offered a sympathetic ear, listening patiently as John unburdened his feelings of guilt and responsibility for the loss of Bumstead, expressed his doubts about his new status as "protector of the city," and poured out his frustrations in his continuing search for who he truly was. He'd reconciled himself to never learning his real past, he knew there was no way for him to ever know and that Schreber could never give him the answers he desired, but the mere fact that Schreber was in the same boat was some comfort.

John flicked on the light in the entryway, hung up his coat and stooped to untie his shoes. The apartment was quiet and dark. Anna hadn't sat up waiting for him. That was good. It would be easier not having to explain his late night walk. He'd begun the walks almost from day one, and tried to get one in every week. Night was a good time to inspect the city, and John liked having time to himself to think and look things over, make sure everything was going okay. If he needed to make any repairs, he had a better chance of not being noticed at night, when few people were out anyway. At first the walks had concerned Anna, his penchant for wandering the streets after dark striking her as peculiar and not at all consistent with his otherwise frank character. Yet as much as he wanted to, John had not been able to tell her about the city, or about himself and his ability. Sometimes he lamented this lack of understanding between them, but for now he would keep silent on it. It was still too close to home. Someday, when enough time had passed and the memories no longer haunted his sleep, he would tell her everything. Someday. He tiptoed across the apartment to avoid waking her. He stopped, pausing

in the bedroom doorway, and admired her sleeping form. A glimmer of lamplight escaped through the window blinds and fell over her face, and the sight brought a smile to his lips. She was even lovelier asleep than awake, her already gentle face made younger and softer, her hair spread out over the pillow. He crept to his side of the bed, undressed quickly, and crawled in beside her. The movement woke her, her head turned toward him and her hand brushed against his hair in the darkness. She smiled sleepily at him and snuggled closer. John smiled back and drew her against him, breathing in the scent of her. With his arm around her, she quickly succumbed to slumber again. The sound of her quiet, steady breathing soon lulled John to sleep.

He awoke in the middle of the night with a start. Anna had shifted out

of his embrace but still lay dead to the world. An urgent knocking sound was coming from the front door. Stumbling out of bed he pulled on his bathrobe and walked cautiously to the door, heart pounding, wishing he had a pistol in his pocket. It was too dark to see through the peephole, and he was loathe to turn on a light. Pressing his face to the door, he whispered hoarsely,

"Who's there?"

"John? It's Daniel. Open up!" Breathing a sigh of relief, John turned the lock and pulled the door open to reveal Schreber's unmistakable hunched form.

"Daniel? What are you doing here this time of night? Has something happened?" Schreber was breathing heavily after his ordeal with the steps,

and his breath came out in short gasps.

"John, thank - goodness. You must - get dressed quickly and - come with - me." John felt himself go pale.

"What is it? What's wrong?" He unconsciously grabbed Schreber's shoulder, who flinched under his grasp.

"No time to - explain. We must hurry!" John opened his mouth, then

closed it abruptly, nodded, and went briskly to his room. He trusted Daniel, and if he needed help as he seemed to right now, it wasn't his place to question. He owed Daniel his life, and reminded himself of it every day. There would be time for explanation later.

In two minutes he rejoined Daniel, who stood fidgeting in the doorway, and the two of them left together. There hadn't been time to leave Anna a note. All he could do was pray that she wouldn't wake up and find him gone.

"Where are we going?" John asked as he strode after Daniel. It was amazing how fast the man could hobble along when the urge struck him. The night was silent except for the sounds of their footfall on the pavement, and Daniel's loud, labored breathing.

"City - center."

"Why, why are we going there?"

"Something you need to - see." It was obvious Daniel wasn't going to give any more away. John shut his mouth and frowned. The minutes seemed to all slide together as they walked steadily forward, turning onto alleys and residential streets and finally entering the commercial district. John lost track of time, aware only of the staccato of his and Schreber's mingled paces. At last he saw they were getting close to City Center. He could see the large clock above the highrises, its illuminated face showing the time was a

quarter to four in the morning. He grimaced. Daniel better have a good reason for dragging him out of bed. He had to be at work at 8:30, and his boss had a reputation for sharp words with anyone who didn't arrive on the dot. A block before they reached the park that marked City Center, Daniel stopped abruptly and looked up at John.

"What you will see will - surprise you. You will have questions - doubts. Fears. I do not have any answers. I just wanted you - to be the first - to see." Schreber limped the rest of the way to the park with John at his heels. They stopped inside at the first bench, and Schreber once more faced John.

"I couldn't tell - the police. If they found him - heaven knows..."

"Him?" John looked inquiringly into Schreber's eyes. "Who, Daniel?" He

followed Daniel's gaze and then started violently at the sight. In the meager lamplight he could faintly see two feet sticking out of the bushes. The familiar panic seized him and he fought the urge to drop everything and run. Instead he swallowed heavily and said in a voice so hoarse it could hardly be heard,

"Daniel, what the hell?" But Schreber was stooping down, seizing hold of the feet and trying to pull.

"Help - me!" he gasped. John felt sick, but he found himself bending over to help his friend. Together they dragged the person out of the bushes, and when John finally stepped back and the lamplight fell on the figure, he nearly choked on his own breath. The face was paler than death and all the hair had been shaved off, but he still knew him - would know him anywhere. It was Bumstead.


	2. The Vessel Part 2

Disclaimer: I don't own John Murdoch, Daniel Schreber, or Frank Bumstead, so please don't sue!

Part 2

It was several moments before John found his voice. He just stood there, staring at Bumstead's lifeless form. He was clothed, but the rags he had on were so filthy it was almost impossible to tell what their original colors had been.

"My God!" John murmured. He turned to Schreber and asked faintly, "Is he dead?"

"No. Just - unconscious." Schreber looked worriedly around him, then said, "We need to move him. If we leave him here he'll end up - in the hands of - the police." John swallowed hard.

"How did you find him?"

"I worked late at the office," Schreber admitted, feeling an unwelcome flush rise to his cheeks. John had long been bugging him about overworking and not getting out enough. "I usually pass through – the park on my way – home. I find it to be – a pleasant place after dark. I found him slumped – by the bench." Schreber gestured to the one they were standing by.

"And you hid him in the bushes?" Daniel nodded.

"I went straight – to fetch you."

"We need to get him out of here," John said, feeling reason return to him. "Probably to a doctor, by the looks of him."

"I will look after him. I have some knowledge in – problems of the body as well as – the mind. But -,"

"You need me to carry him," John finished for him. "I think I can manage. Do you think we should try to wake him up first?"

"No." Daniel was firm. "It will almost certainly – cause trouble."

"Okay then." John bent over and after a bit of a struggle, managed to prop the unconscious man against the bench. As he paused for breath, the clock chimed 4:00 am, causing both of them to jump. After the last stroke, the two men looked at each other.

"We'd better get going," Schreber said. John bent once more over Bumstead and started hauling him up by his arms. He looked like he'd lost about 15 pounds, but even in reduced form his lifeless body was a deadweight. When John managed to get him onto the bench he had to stop for breath again, while Schreber made sure Bumstead didn't get too roughed up in the process. It was he who noticed the wound.

"My – God!" He intoned in a whisper. John was quick to follow his gaze.

"What happened to him?" he questioned, his voice just as soft as his friend's. On the back of Bumstead's head were several long gashes, all in various stages of healing, all apparently made by the same instrument.

"Who could have done this?" John turned to Schreber, who shook his head in horror and bewilderment.  
"I can't imagine."  
"Will you be able to take care of them?" John didn't mean to sound skeptical, but he didn't see how a psychiatrist could be trained to handle head injuries. Schreber paused, examining the wounds, running over them with light fingers.  
"Yes," he said at last. "It is difficult to know how much - damage has been done but - I believe I can help them - to heal." He straightened himself. "But now we must go." John bent over for a final time and, with Daniel's help, eased Bumstead onto his back, sack-of-potatoes style. He staggered a few moments under the weight, but after shifting his load a bit, he began to walk carefully out of the park and toward Daniel's apartment 5 blocks away. They were forced to detour a few blocks to avoid the police station, a decision that made John groan out loud, and gasp to Daniel,  
"I think I'd kill for a police car right now!" Daniel smiled wryly.  
"I doubt it. If the police caught you - like this you would find yourself - in handcuffs before you could - blink an eye."  
"Oh, you don't think they'd like my Jack-the-ripper act?" John said, quirking an eyebrow. Schreber snorted, the irony not lost on him.   
"Can you be arrested for the same crime twice?" John's mouth twisted in an expression of pure sarcasm.  
"If no one else remembers - the first time, yes." Schreber said. John rolled his eyes.  
"Then I guess it's a good thing Bumstead's in no position to talk." The attempted joke contained no mirth, and both men fell silent. By the time they arrived at Schreber's doorstep, John was spent. He barely managed to deposit Bumstead on a couch before collapsing on the floor next to him with a grunt.  
"I'm going to need a doctor myself... for my back!" he said between groans.   
"Thank you." Schreber looked John in the eyes, expressing his gratefulness without further words.   
"What are you going to do now?"  
"I'll let him rest. If he doesn't regain consciousness by - daylight I may have to - telephone a hospital."  
"He looks like he should be on a drip," John commented, concern in his voice. "His face is like ash."  
"He needs nourishment, that's - for sure." Schreber bent over and felt Bumstead's pulse. It was very fast - too fast. He grimaced, then pulled out his pocket watch.  
"It's nearing 5:00. You should get some - sleep. I'll call you if there - are any developments." John nodded and got to his feet. At the doorway he stopped to shake his friend's hand.  
"Take good care of him, Daniel. If he can live, I might have a chance at redemption after all."


	3. The Vessel Part 3

To my readers: I apologize profusely for the amount of time it's taken for me to update this. Last fall I decided to drop the story since I didn't know where I wanted to go with it, but recently the muse returned, so here's my second stab! Hope you enjoy, and know that feedback is greatly appreciated, as always!

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the canon characters, but if you want to give me Murdoch, I won't say no!

Part 3

John took another sip of coffee and continued to stare moodily ahead of him. Ever since he arrived at work with his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep, he'd been sitting at his typewriter with the worst case of writer's block he'd had in weeks. He was supposed to be typing up a report but the words simply weren't coming. Instead his mind kept returning to Bumstead's limp form and the strange cuts on the back of his head. He had so many questions it was no wonder he couldn't get his report written. Who'd made the cuts and why? How long had Bumstead been on the streets? Would he be okay or was a full recovery too much to hope for? And most of all, how in hell had he managed to find his way back to the city? John had seen him with his own eyes as he and a Stranger were sucked out into the void of dark space. He'd relived those brief moments time and time again in his mind, the horror of loss washing over him again and again, never diminished. If only he'd been a foot closer he could have saved him; could have reached out and grabbed him, pulled him to safety. For two months John had blamed himself for the loss of Bumstead who, though initially obliged to work against him, had ended up an ally. He'd deliberately sprung him free from jail and the Strangers' grasp, and John wholeheartedly believed that under different circumstances he and Bumstead could have been friends. Now that he had miraculously appeared in the city, John felt tinges of hope. If Bumstead were to recover, John could beg forgiveness, and just a few words from the detective's lips would make living with himself so much easier. With that guilt lifted from his shoulders he'd be a new man.

Catching the direction of his thoughts, John flushed slightly. _What it all boils down to is selfishness. You're just glad Bumstead's back so he can make you feel better, _John said to himself. "But that's not true," he muttered in a low tone of denial. The words rang falsely in his ears. Releasing a groan, he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his burning eyes. He felt beat and it wasn't even lunchtime yet. He wished for the umpteenth time that he'd been sent out on an interview or something – anything rather than sit here in the office and vegetate. If there was any hope of stimulating his half-asleep brain into action, it certainly wasn't going to happen here. John had written a total of two sentences, and was slumped over his typewriter in the early stages of sleep, when the telephone across the room rang shrilly, startling him awake. As he straightened himself in his chair and gazed bleary-eyed at the lines of typed words on the paper, the secretary who'd answered the phone came up to him. Seeing her presence beside him out of the corner of his eye, he looked up inquisitively.

"Sorry to bother you Mr. Murdoch, but you've got a call from Dr. Schreber. He says it's urgent."

John bolted out of his seat without responding, and picked up the phone. The secretary heard him mutter a few words into the mouthpiece, then he hung up. In a second he was back at his desk. He ripped the mostly blank sheet of paper out of the typewriter, crumpled it and stuck it in his pocket, then whisked his trench off the coathanger. As he did up the buttons, he said,

"Got to run, Betty. Please, tell the boss I just got tipped on a great story. I'll stay overtime tomorrow, okay? I'm out of here." Without a second glance at her that might permit questions, he walked briskly out of the room, closing the door firmly behind him and leaving Betty standing perplexed and open-mouthed in the middle of the room.

As soon as he was out of the building, John broke into a run. A wave of adrenaline shot through him, driving away his previous exhaustion in an instant. It was raining outside but John had forgotten his hat and umbrella in his haste, so he ran squinting, with the rain falling freely on his bare head. It was about 12 blocks to Daniel's apartment and though

his excitement was making him careless, he had the prudence to think of keeping dry. After two blocks he reached a bus stop, where the bus was just pulling away. He chased after it, shouting and waving his hands wildly, and half a block later it slowed down and let him on. Gasping a thanks to the driver, John fumbled in his pocket for a quarter, dropped it in the slot, and sat down heavily in a seat, shaking the water from his hair. Looking around self-consciously, he saw the only other passenger was an old lady who stared at him, completely non-plussed. Amused at her total disinterest, John hid a smirking grin. Five minutes later he got off and ran the last block to Daniel's apartment. He stood on the doorstep and rang the buzzer urgently so Daniel would know it was him. Seconds later Schreber was there and John was stepping inside and wiping his wet shoes on the mat.

"Thank you for coming - so promptly," Schreber said. "He's very disoriented and weak. I can't seem to make out most of what he's - saying but I am certain I heard him mention - you."

"Me?" John echoed. "Why would he mention me? He hardly knew me."

"You obviously made quite - an impression on him," Schreber said wryly, leading John over to the makeshift bed where Bumstead lay. It was immediately clear that he was in the grip of fever. His face was flushed and glistening with sweat, and he seemed unable to lie still, his eyes alternately opening and closing as he mumbled incoherent words. Schreber bent over him and John watched him lift a cloth from a bowl of water by

the bed and bathe Bumstead's face.

"He's ill!" John said with a mixture of surprise and concern. "He ought to be in a hospital." Schreber shook his head.

"We can't risk it. Not just yet."

"Murdoch!" Bumstead's voice, suddenly clear and audible, surprised them. Schreber held the man's shoulder and said in a soothing voice,

"He's here, I've brought him."

"Hello," John said gently, stepping closer. Seeing him, Bumstead became suddenly agitated. His movements became jerky, almost spasmodic, but his eyes, bright with fever, focused intently on John's face. John became alarmed, and, following Schreber's example, took Bumstead's twitching hand. It was cold and clammy, but he didn't let go.

"It's alright, Inspector." The word smacked of condescension, and John winced after saying it. All traces of the careful and methodic Inspector Bumstead had all but vanished, leaving behind a raving, wreck of a man in his place. "What's his name? His first name," he whispered to Daniel.

"Frank."

"Frank," John echoed. He turned back to Bumstead.

"It's alright, Frank. You're among friends." But Bumstead would not calm down. His hand suddenly gripped John's with a fierce strength, his eyes boring purposefully into John's own.

"It's not safe!" he said urgently, in the same clear tone. "Tell Murdoch he must get out! It's the only way he can save himself." John paled at the sick man's words, but he said gently,

"I'm right here, Frank. It's me, Murdoch. Everything's okay." Bumstead shook his head, sadness, despair and desperation creeping into his eyes.

"Please tell him!" he begged John. "They haven't given up - they will find him." His last words were a whisper. "They'll never give up."

"Alright, I'll tell him. Don't worry, I'll tell him." John didn't know what else to say, but this assurance seemed to comfort Bumstead, who closed his eyes and instantly drifted off. John turned to Schreber.

"My God, what was that? What did he mean, Daniel?"

"We can only guess. Whatever he went through - it must have been - terrible. He may have lost his memory, even his mind. It's hard to tell with the fever making him delirious. But whatever the situation, he has retained memories of you – and the case. The Strangers. They continue to haunt him."

"So he doesn't know they're gone? Jesus... Poor guy."

"It is possible that he does know, but his – fever is making him relive the fear and confusion – in nightmare form. We cannot be sure of what he does – and does not – know until he has completely – recovered."

"So you think recovery is possible, then?"

"Oh yes. His injuries do not seem to – have caused permanent damage. He – seems to see alright and we both – know he can speak, now!"

"But what about mental recovery, Daniel? I mean, I understand that he's delirious now, but this paranoia… you don't think it'll last, do you?"

"I don't know. That is all I can tell you. I'm sorry." John nodded reluctantly, accepting his friend's answer. They were silent for a couple moments, both gazing at the unconscious man before them. He was lying still at last, but whether the peace would last was doubtful. Despite the worry he felt over Bumstead, John's earlier exhaustion was beginning to claim him again. Now that the excitement was over, he could feel his body screaming for rest and his eyelids suddenly became ridiculously heavy. He felt Daniel glance at him.

"Would you like a cup – of tea or something?"

John smiled wryly. "Coffee would be marvelous, if you've got it."

"Sure thing."

Over coffee they quietly discussed Bumstead's future, each throwing in ideas for various outcomes. The problem was, they had know way of knowing what his mental state would be after he got over his present illness, and this ignorance prevented them from making any concrete plans. John offered to let Bumstead stay at his house if the man had lost his memory, though he was less willing to take him in if he proved to be unstable, not out of any concern for himself, but he wasn't sure Anna would be very keen on the idea. Daniel also expressed willingness to let Bumstead stay with him, whatever his state, knowing that he could do more for him than any hospital psychiatrist since he alone knew the former detective's background. In the end they had to let the matter sit and let time reveal the rest. John left Daniel's apartment and, not wanting to return the work and have the trouble of facing the boss with a poorly fabricated excuse, he decided to go home early and try drafting his report there. The rain had stopped, so he went home on foot instead of taking the bus, figuring that the walk would do him good and give him some time to think. He'd voiced many of his thoughts and speculations to Daniel during the past hour, but there still remained many more darker ideas that he didn't dare permit himself to express. Although he made an effort on the more immediate affairs at hand, and the sketched plans he and Daniel had thrown back and forth, he couldn't get Bumstead's desperate, pleading face out of his head, and the terrible urgency in his voice as he'd whispered,

"They'll never give up!" In spite of the sunshine, John shivered.


End file.
